Theories in Chaos
by ReadingBlueWolf
Summary: There's one cardinal rule: Don't trade lives. In the dust of Thanos's blitzkrieg, Tony and Steve realize it's not a promise any Avenger can keep. And, it's the one outcome Rocket hates the most. 《Time travel, Multi-verse, X-Men, most characters are featured》
1. Sands Through the Hour Glass

_No._

 _No!_

 _NO!_

This couldn't be the end. There had to be more. It had to be an illusion.

Just a deception.

One of the Stones did that, right?

 _RIGHT?!_

One outcome. One possible outcome where they would win. That's what the crazy wizard with the hand movements _promised_ , wasn't it? That's why they fought so hard.

There wasn't any way _this_ could be it.

Though…

That dick of a Starlord screwed things up pretty badly. They could have had the gauntlet—almost had it, nearly had it. They could have taken the Stones from Thanos. Had Quill just followed the plan—the one _he_ claimed credit for—he could have had revenge for the death of his green girlfriend. There could have been a better outcome.

A promised outcome.

But…

Just like that…

Gone.

And not just Starlord.

They're _all_ gone. The wizard. Mr. Clean. Bug girl.

Gone.

Dust.

Blown away by the softest of breezes. Here one minute, gone the next. Like soft sand slipping gently through fingers without the warmth and fun in the beach sun.

 _Mr. Stark. I don't feel so good._

He can't breathe, can't do anything. Hand pressed against his mouth. A typhoon of emotions rage within strangling every last bit of oxygen from his lungs.

 _I don't know—I don't know what's happening._

Tony didn't either. Not that he could tell the kid. Not that he could admit there was a chance of failure. With over fourteen million disastrous scenarios, they had chosen the only one capable of winning. Or so he'd been told.

 _I don't wanna go. Please._

He blinks. Had the wizard lied? Was there _no_ possible way to win?

 _I'm sorry._

His lip quivers as trembles rattle through his bones.

A kid far too young. A kid with so much life ahead of him. _The_ kid _he_ encouraged to be a superhero.

Another life _he_ was responsible for taking.

As punishment, he's left with the crazy blue chick who has clearly seen better days.

Her dark eyes are on him, watching closely, judging his actions. She's a predator on this damned moon where everything's been lost. A predator who's eying him as if he's some sort of fresh meat. A predator intent on killing.

Would it matter if he died?

Would it change anything?

Was there anyone left to care?

If he accepts death, however, then Strange had surrendered the Time Stone for no reason.

 _Idiot_ , Tony thinks as he sits in the deep red dirt. His gaze slowly takes in the rubble he's settled on. While he realized earlier where he was, he tried like hell to ignore it. However, it's been in his nightmares for years, ranking top one—out of five.

Five things he's worked to prepare for.

One he failed bitterly at.

 _Parker can't be…_

He stops as a nagging burn courses through his chest. How can he say anything? How can he do anything? No, he can't talk about it. If he talks about it, it becomes real.

It becomes fact.

It becomes one truth he can't bear to accept.

They simply aren't gone. They're not dead. All he has to do is wait until this vision ends. He's been susceptible to mind control before. This is simply another one of those illusions. When it fades, they'll all be back. They'll have won.

The blue woman's movements catch his attention. She saunters to him, like a leopard towards its prey. Her head turns slightly to the right. "We can't stay here."

"I have to. When they come back—"

"They're _not_ coming back," she rebukes, her breathy voice laced with annoyance. "Thanos has the gauntlet and he's gotten rid of them. _Forever_."

He hangs his head low as the setting sun. How could things have gone so awry? He'd barely just dreamed of having a child only to wake to his worst nightmare.

What he wouldn't give to have died all those years ago in the portal.

Then the kid would still be alive.

Taking a few steps, the crazy blue lady looks back at him. Aggravation is written thick on her face in the form of a scowl. "Have it your way. Perhaps thousands of years from now they'll find your irritating corpse still clinging to these steps."

With a sharp breath, Tony turns his face to the darkening sky. She's wrong. They have to meet him here. They have to come back. They have to come _home._

It _isn't_ over.

However, the nagging in his chest is growing and spiraling out of control. It's telling him what he knows but can't bring himself to admit. The dark truth weighs heavy on his soul.

Looking at the blue chick, he bites his cheek.

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

Bucky.

 _Bucky?_

One minute there, the next gone. Just as he had been for years. It's a twisted game Steve's more used to than he'd like to admit. One they've played more times than they should. After all, his friend has had enough sorrows for a million lifetimes.

But by the same token, so has he.

As Wakanda—the world—disintegrates into chaos, he finds himself at a loss for words. He doesn't know what he says to help nor what his body is doing. His muscles shift into autopilot as his brain also recognizes Sam's gone. As is Wanda.

But Bucky…

He'd lost him once, twice, and now a third.

His best friend. The one who's always been there with him. For him.

But not…

Not til the end of the line…

He turns to look for Vision, hoping the android can make sense of things. Provide some sort of wisdom. It's only then Steve remembers he's another among the lost.

At least _that's_ a body they can bury.

Maneuvering through the field, assisting where he can, he comes upon the little raccoon from earlier. It's gaze shifts from person to person. Its movements are quick, gun ready to fire at a moment's notice. Steve recognizes that as angry as the little creature appears, he's actually quite frightened.

Drawing near to the raccoon, Steve kneels down and extends a hand. "Steve Rogers."

The creature turns to him, his furry face taken aback with a quirked brow. His rough voice is laced with unconcern, and possibly irritation—though his eyes tell a far different story. "So?"

"Not quite sure we got to meet earlier. Thought I'd formally introduce myself."

"You humans and your customs," the raccoon snorts. However, he does keep a close watch on him. "Rocket."

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." The raccoon looks over the field again, but his ears drop back, and he winces before looking at the ground. Clearing his throat, he looks at Steve. "You friends with the metal arm dude?"

Steve nods.

"Too bad he couldn't have left that."

* * *

— _Incoming Transmission_ —

 _Hey yo!_

 _Hope you're recovering from the movie!_

 _Normal disclaimers here. Anything you recognize isn't mine. Also note, I like to use the comic and other Marvel sources to flesh out things. Also, it's been a while since I've dabbled in my home fandom here._

 _Make sure to follow on your way out to make life easier._

 _And, what do you think? Please leave a word or two in the box below._

— _End Transmission_ —


	2. Stop Thinking

_I hope they remember you._

His tongue flicks over dust-caked lips only to realize a moment too late how disgusting and painful the action is. Tony grimaces and fights the urge to wipe his mouth. Air stings against fresh cracks as blood trickles onto lips and mixes with the grime.

With a bone-dry mouth and the ever-present taste of rich, iron-heavy dirt, he's not certain if he's turning to dust as well. What he does know, though, is a shiver runs up his spine every time the grit scrapes against his teeth. He's not sure if flossing will ever get it all out.

He's also pretty sure his lungs are filled with the red dirt since he's having trouble coughing—not to mention inhaling. He's doubtful that he'll ever breathe normally again.

 _Remember you…_

He struggles to traverse the landscape; rocks scurry out from beneath his feet, and he face plants more than once. Tony knows his stumbles slow the crazy, blue chick. She doesn't have the decency to hide the glowers she sends him nor the kindness to help him back on his feet.

What does it matter, though? What's one more blow to his brokenness? He's lost everything anyway.

Well, maybe not everything.

It's then he spares a moment to think of Pepper. In the midst of losing the kid, losing the war, he forgot her. Wincing, he shakes his head. He's tried so hard to balance life. To balance saving the world. When he gets back what will she say?

Provided she's not dust.

That's a thought he shies away from because it's also another hit he's currently not equipped to take.

Stumbling over more rocks, his body feels old and that's a struggle as well. He's always been able to run at all times, but now... there's an ache deep within his bones that slows him. It's unsettling. Unnerving even. It's also something that gives him an out of body experience. Something's wrong. _It shouldn't be this difficult._ But that's not an issue he can handle at this present moment. He's already besieged by the overload in his mind.

 _I hope they remember—_

"You live here?" Tony questions, changing his thoughts in an attempt to calm them.

"Once," the blue chick replies.

 _Brevity_ , he thinks. _Not exactly what I need right now._

"Must've had some good daddy, daughter picnics," he tries again because he can't be left alone with his thoughts. Not right now. "Sandwiches with the crusts trimmed…"

But just like that, the small bubble of hope is popped as she sends him a harrowing glare before descending into a canyon.

 _Remember…_

In the silence, his headache returns. The excruciating throb of what he's sure is a concussion from being slammed into the ground skews his thoughts in addition to his judgments. The pounding causes his stomach to bubble with thick waves of greasy nausea, because he thought he was strong enough to take on Thanos.

 _Everything._

Rubbing the back of his head, Tony rolls out a creak in his neck. It gives a small pop, and he winces. His hand runs down his face, and he trips again. Luckily, he catches himself otherwise he'd be rolling over the edge and onto the canyon floor.

Looking up at the blue chick, he realizes she has yet to trip on the terrain. It's odd because there are holes and tricky rocks everywhere.

He bites his cheek. _Why isn't she—_

Tony's head turns slightly to the left as he realizes she's picking out a path. Her footsteps are sure and steady, unlike his newborn deer wobble. He curses himself. He's been an idiot trying to figure out where to step when she already knows the way.

Once he mimics her movements and stabilizes his steps, the path becomes easy to traverse. He feels like a surefooted deer and puffs his chest. He _hasn't_ lost abilities despite his aching muscles.

He then clears his throat. "We need to go to Earth. There're resources there—"

"Earth?" She scoffs, throwing a glance over her shoulder. "Ants among giants. You're using children's toys compared to the rest of the universe."

His brow quirks. "So, then, where are we going?"

" _I'm_ going after Thanos," she informs him. "You're going to a starport."

"What?"

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

 _Steve?_

The world is dark around him. He's not sure when he dozed off nor how he ended up curled on his side in a corner of the throne room. All he knows is his body aches far worse than it did after the Chitauri invasion, which is nothing compared to the painful numbness in his chest.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he chases away the lingering image of ashes. Here, away from the dreams, he has a job to do. Whether that job is to help or to run from the ashes chasing him, he isn't sure. He doesn't think he can be sure, because how can he bury his best friend twice?

With no body either time.

 _Steve…?_

In the distance, he sees Okoye speaking with what few officials remain. Despite his enhanced hearing, even he can't make out what they're discussing.

 _Steve—_

"Their princess is among the dead."

Shifting, he sees the raccoon sitting by his stomach. The creature has one ear attentive and forward, listening intently, while the other is flattened against his head. Those dark eyes blink, probably in an attempt to hold back a wealth of emotion. In his claws, he holds a gun, which Steve vaguely recognizes as odd since there's already one strapped to the creature's back.

"Shuri?" Steve questions in the same low tone.

The raccoon shrugs. "Didn't catch her name. They're just wondering who's gonna lead this shit fest."

He opens his mouth to comment on language, but it's the end of the world so does it really matter? Without an answer, he instead questions, "She turned to ash?"

"Who knows? Had a fifty-fifty shot, so probably a good bet."

Steve gives a slow nod. His gaze travels the darkened room to the wide window behind the empty throne. The moon is high overhead, happy as a clam as if it didn't witness the genocide of half the universe today.

Or… maybe it did and it's rejoicing.

Steve scrunches his eyes closed, only to see ashes fluttering in the breeze. Taking a slow breath, he looks up at the high ceiling. He has to change the subject. Has to stop thinking about Bucky, but that only leads Sam to enter his mind.

He clears his throat. "Where's Thor?"

"Chasing down the sonovabitch that killed his brother."

"Loki's really gone?" he questions, face twisting with deep thought. He's heard on several occasions the Asgardian pretended to be dead, only to show up again.

The raccoon shrugs and looks up from the gun to watch the officials exit the room. It's then, and only then, both ears flatten, and his gaze drops to the floor. Without looking over, the raccoon offers the gun to him. "This was your buddy's, right?"

Steve slowly sits. His hand wraps around the weapon, and he swallows back the lump forming in his throat. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a tick counts the excruciating minutes. _Six long hours since…_ "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." The raccoon's head lowers and his shoulders slump. His fur ripples with every facial feature he tries so hard to pretend he isn't making.

 _Steve—_

Clearing his throat, again, Steve knows that if the raccoon could talk about the pain then maybe he'd feel better. Maybe they both would. "The tree, Groot, he was your fri—"

"Did I miss where we became acquaintances?" he snorts as he pulls up his knees and sets his forelegs on them. His head turns away as his tail curls around his feet.

It's not as if Steve's _surprised_ by the attitude. Everyone deals differently with grief. Some run, others cry, and then there's the group that refuses to think about the event. Steve looks down at the gun in his hands. "Death isn't easy."

"We all got dead people, though," the raccoon states in that dark tone of a growl. "Most of us got a list, right? What does one more matter?"

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

True to the blue bitch's word, she left him stranded in a spaceport. Hell, she tasered his ass and discarded him among the waste that remains. He's lucky no one's found him in the garbage dump since the port is littered with fires and debris which leaves it ripe for the pickings.

An apocalypse if he's ever seen one.

Not that he has, but so far, the movies do it justice.

Currently, Tony sticks to the shadows. He's seen more unidentifiable creatures than even George Lucas can imagine, and most of them would probably eat him for dinner. Luckily, they all seem intent on scavenging through shops in search of whatever their limbs can grab. He believes he'll be fine as long as a Xenomorph doesn't appear.

He doesn't need a chestburster where his reactor used to be.

Which brings him to a terrifying thought. The reactor's been badly damaged by the battle. The armor can't seem to completely cover his skin, and he's lucky if it's got a repulsor shot left in it. If he faces Thanos again, he won't make it out alive.

For that matter, if he faces _any_ of the aliens he's seen he doesn't stand a chance.

Sneaking down an alley, Tony finds it odd the world's become rather quiet. There's no growling or shuffling. Simply his footsteps and the crackle of the fire, but not much else. _Did everyone go to sleep for the night?_

As he nears another corner, hairs rise on the back of his neck, chasing chills down his spine. Holding his breath, he peeks around the edge of a building to see at least two dozen beings cowering on the ground. Some quake with fear and there's a whimper from one or two which is answered by a bone-chilling snarl.

Tony's gaze rises to see half a dozen black and gold beasts circling the crowd.

A sense of hopelessness and fear smothers him the longer he watches the terrifying creatures. With four muscular arms and two burly hindlegs, he knows he'd lose to them in a fight. Their thick, leathery hide shimmers in the starlight, and based on their swift movements, it's also apparent he could never outrun them.

 _What I wouldn't give for a chestburster right now…_

One shrieks as its massive clawed hand slams down on an innocent being. The motion draws Tony's gaze to the ground, and the dust in his stomach threatens to make an appearance as it burns his throat.

The street is littered with bodies, no more than a mess of blood and bones now. Strewn throughout are limbs of different types as well as heads, legs, and torsos. The most recent victim is torn to shreds before his eyes. Appendages bounce off the walls, clattering to the ground with a sickening thump to join the others. Tony has no choice but to turn away lest his heaving stomach win out.

Suddenly, he's hyper-aware that movies don't give an apocalypse justice in _any_ way.

* * *

— _Incoming Transmission_ —

 _Hey there!_

 _Few quick things:_

 _First, I've heard rumors that the mobile follow doesn't quite work. I know on my end I see nothing. I'm not sure if you're getting alerts if you followed that way. I'd love to know if you are._

 _Second, updates will be sporadic, thus I'm not sure on a schedule._

 _Also, I know these two chapters are on the shorter side, I'm shooting for 2-3K. Cool?_

 _Lastly, hope you're enjoying. If you are, let me know._

— _End Transmission_ —


	3. Unlikely Partnership

Tony jumps as chills tingle down his spine and shiver through his limbs. Gaze darting every which way, he slips back into the long shadows of the alley. Into the darkness whence he came. With a heart racing faster than a car in the Indy 500, he questions if he'll ever make it back to Earth. Or worse: Would it matter if he did?

Lightheaded.

Clammy.

That's all he feels next.

By the time his other senses catch up, Tony's sprawled on his back. The ringing in his ears is deafening. Loud. Screeching. And for a moment he's not certain if it's just his ears.

In fact, Tony swears he's in Jurassic Park and Blue is shrieking at him. Blinking, he manages to lift his head from the ground to see one of those black and gold beasts slinking towards him. Somehow, it crept up on him. Somehow, it flung him roughly fifty feet from where he was. Somehow, he's still alive but not for long.

A shaky left hand raises to touch his reactor, to give one last fight.

His arm never makes it that far.

Dangling from his left wrist, a bolt of lightning bursts through his shoulder and crackles through the rest of his body. He doesn't utter a word. Red dust simply sears his throat as it makes its way out. His vision blurs, head lulls to the right.

Another heave. Dirt. Iron. Bile.

He doesn't bother struggling. There's really no point. The black and gold beast has him. The creature will kill him before he knows it. And for once fate has decided to smile on him in the most ironic way. He welcomes the fact that in moments it will take him from the universe he helped destroy.

True to his thoughts, he's sailing through the air, into a brick wall. Through it he goes like Miley Cyrus on a wrecking ball.

 _Mr. Stark… I don't feel so good._

 _Neither do I_ , he thinks. Chills race down his spine again. When Tony shudders this time, the pain is more than he can bear.

 _*TiC* TiC* TiC*_

Dawn is still a long way off.

Steve's pretty certain the raccoon follows him everywhere. Not that the prideful creature will ever admit such a thing. No. In any case, with Thor gone, Steve assumes he might be the next best thing. Not that he minds being leftovers. It keeps _his_ mind from wandering too far.

As they near an enormous staircase, magnificent and beautifully crafted from some sort of polished rock, Steve glances down at the little creature.

His ears are struggling to stay attentive as they droop backward only to pop up moments later. His whiskers, along with his fur, are pointed every which way. The way his tail drags across the ground is the final piece that lets Steve known the raccoon is so tired—and so far from any home he's ever known. To an extent, Steve completely understands.

2018 is so vastly different from 1943.

When he pauses, the raccoon does the same. He looks up with those sad brown eyes, his nose twitching and head tilting.

Steve kneels and looks him in the furry face. "Let me give you a lift."

Gun in hand, the raccoon waves him off. "I don't need your help."

"I know." Steve gives an indifferent shrug. "But I'd like to make it up the stairs today."

The change is subtle in those dark eyes. Just a small glimmer of amusement, but it's enough to register because Steve's only seen sadness and loss within.

All the same, maybe that's what Rocket sees in his.

"Yeah, all right. But just this once," he states and slings his gun on his back.

Steve helps the raccoon up his arm and onto his shoulders. Fighting off a smile, Steve knows he can _never_ admit that this reminds him of a father carrying a child. Chances are it would hurt Rocket's ego—which is clearly more fragile than china in a shop with a bull.

Lightly Steve jogs up the steps and walks down the long hallway. It isn't long before he's ducking through a door on his left into the war room. Moving to a seat, he sets the raccoon in the chair next to him.

Surprisingly, Rocket leaves his gun where it is and doesn't say a word. Steve questions if the creature has the strength to comment. Could exhaustion and depression be catching up with him? After all, the raccoon merely glances to him before looking around the carved wooden table.

Settled there are what remains of the "heroes" and officials. Natasha, Banner, Okoye, Rhodes… A few others he doesn't quite know, yet. Including him and the raccoon, there are eleven.

Eleven defeated people after the end of the world.

 _I wish Thor hadn't gone,_ he thinks as if twelve could really make a difference.

While condolences are exchanged, Steve glances up to see the television networks are offline. There's no signal into Wakanda nor out. As far as he knows, there's no signal anywhere in the world. Maybe even the universe.

Steve doesn't know whether to be thankful or not for the lack of news. He's certain the world is in chaos, but for once he doesn't have to watch it. It gives him a chance to think through possibilities instead of having situations twisted before he ever arrives. He doesn't understand how media has been made into an idol. Aren't people depressed enough as it is?

"What do we do, Cap?"

The rooms attention shifts to him, and he looks over at Doctor Banner. They want _him_ to give a speech? They want him to devise a plan? They want him to take control? He's not even Captain America anymore. How can they want him to lead?

Still, he knows the room needs some semblance of order. He's certain Wakanda can figure things out, but his own people do need him. He glances to Natasha. "We lost some of our best men, yesterday. We don't know if Stark survived, or anyone else for that matter. I think…" He pauses and looks at Rocket. "I think it's best to take a day to grieve. We need…um…" He falters for a moment because those sad brown eyes, ringed in black remind him of all that's lost. Clearing his throat, Steve looks at Natasha. "We need a day…"

 _He_ needs a day. Just to process. Think through. Devise the plan they're looking for.

"We'll patch up Wakanda as best we can, then take a day," he finishes.

"What if the purple bastard comes back tomorrow?" the raccoon growls. "I want to be ready for him."

Steve shakes his head before dropping his gaze to the table. Pain sears through his chest as he swallows roughly. "Thanos has accomplished his goal. There's no reason for him to return."

 _*TiC* TiC* TiC*_

 _The armor slides over skin like milk, smooth and even. Gold at first then pieces take on an iconic red color._

 _A smile._

 _No need for bulky armor._

 _No need for wait time._

 _Just think and it happens._

When he comes to, the dream is shattered, and he's far colder than he's ever been.

Gazing upward, the stars are gone like candles blown out.

The only noise in the darkness is shrieking in the distance.

He's not certain how long he's been out, nor does he care. He's likely to die in this place. Wherever it is. Alone.

A most fitting death.

He's always known this was a one-way mission. He'd have been a fool to think otherwise. Here, far beyond Earth, is where his final breath will be. In a derelict starport with no one by his side.

Then, just like that, fate decides to twist the knife again.

There are frozen streaks down his face, and Tony decides maybe it's time to move. Maybe he doesn't want to die alone. So, inch by inch, he uses his right arm to push himself into a seated position. Once he's settled, he realizes his left arm won't budge. No matter how hard he tries, overwhelming pain is the only result.

It's then he decides he doesn't need FRIDAY to tell him all the fractures, breaks and contusions his body now has. _So_ , it's better she's out of commission.

Tony's gaze shifts around the room. It must have been some sort of lodging given all the doors to his left and the remnants of a fireplace to his right. As he looks behind him, his attention is drawn to a statue kneeling in the corner. It watches him, and that's highly unnerving. He wonders if he blinks would the angel kill him?

Shifting to get a better look, the rubble cracks and shifts beneath him.

The Weeping Angel raises a hand telling him to pause before placing a finger to its lips. He sees its head shift upwards.

It's hard to tell if it's the cold or something else that makes him shiver. All he knows is that while he looks at the hole in the ceiling, he wants to cry out and end all his pain. He cocked up. It's his fault the universe is in disarray. He should have been able to stop Thanos. Should have been prepared—

He shudders when something touches him and finds the warm skin over his mouth odd, yet, settling. He looks up to see the Weeping Angel—a woman—keeping him silent. That annoyed look is on her face as well and he wonders if it's a new trait for him. Perhaps everyone hates him.

As they should.

However, the Weeping Angel helps him to his feet. Steadying him, she then chooses a path through the rubble, which he follows. When the chill passes over him again, he shoves her quietly against the wall and winces as he presses his body into the shadows as well.

His breath is shaky. He got the kid killed. Parker died because of his mistakes. The wizard shouldn't have traded the Stone for his life. He should have died when Thanos stabbed him. If only he'd—

Warmth again covers his mouth him. He looks at the Weeping Angel before him, her hand over his lips, and realizes he needs to hold his breath. He bites the inside of his cheek. Is there a correlation between the cold and suicidal depression?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the air twist like it does on hot summer asphalt before a black and gold beast materializes out of thin air.

 _Shit._

 _*TiC* TiC* TiC*_

Sitting in the field, Steve watches the deep, green grass flutter in the breeze. The wind kisses his hair and rustles through Rocket's fur. The sun peeks over the horizon, hesitant almost. Possibly attempting to apologize. In contrast, however, the gentle rays caress his face and warm him deep inside.

He doesn't understand how the universe seems to rejoice. Everything around him, above him and beneath, seems to be singing praises. It all seems pleased with the amount of death it's just witnessed. And _that's_ a concept—despite the warmth in his soul—that doesn't make a lick of sense.

The only solace he finds is the fact that not _every_ creature is pleased.

"This isn't how it ends," Steve says as gentle as the breeze on their faces. He begins to wonder if the peace that ebbs over him now is due to his beliefs. Or maybe he's just lost his mind since he can't seem to do anything but stare at the sunrise. He knows they're working to clean up Wakanda, but watching the dawn is the only thing that keeps his chest from bursting to pieces.

"What do you mean this _isn't_ how it ends?" The raccoon questions. "You expect some big explosion? Fireworks? The sun burning you Earthers up?"

He shakes his head. "This isn't scriptural."

Rocket looks up at him, skepticism written all over his furry face. "You one of those cult freaks?"

Steve chuckles at that. He's not surprised to hear there are different religions throughout the galaxy. "No, Sir. I just believe in God."

"Sir?" The raccoon chuckles. "I like the sound of that."

Steve smiles at him. It's then he begins to see a slight shift in the raccoon's dark eyes.

Rocket tilts his head. "Which god you believe in? Lightning man? Ethereals? Hell, even Quill's old man was considered a god."

"The only one," Steve replies. "And this isn't how He says the world ends."

"Oh, he tell you that?" the raccoon snorts, laughter creeping up his throat.

"In so many words, yes."

One furry brow rises, the look on his face says he's merely humoring the human. "You talk to a god?"

"The only God I acknowledge." Steve nods, curious as to how the creature will view this belief. He's certain Rocket's seen many religions, heard and seen many possibilities. What will he make of one more? "In some ways. Mainly through His word. The Bible."

Rocket shakes his head. "You Earthers are a real weird bunch. You know that?"

"You keep reminding me," Steve grins wide.

And so does Rocket.

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

The beast deeply scents the air as it seeks prey. Slow, steady steps move towards them, hunting them. It won't be long before the creature stumbles upon them. Which is why Tony presses his body against the Weeping Angel's.

If the beast gets one of them, let it be him. She's done nothing to deserve this fate. She was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hopefully, she can escape while it rips him limb from limb.

The Weeping Angel shifts, drawing his attention. In the dead of night, he can barely make out her head, so he's not certain what she's fiddling with. For all he knows, she could be working to break his neck. At least it would be a quicker death than what he's seen the beasts give.

There's a swift movement against his arm followed by a clatter, ringing loud and harsh, in the distance. It's deafening in the silence. However, it's also enough that the beast shrieks and pounces.

In the next moment, Tony's tugged, yanked and then tumbling through a gap. Fire swims past his vision as he works on righting himself. He needs to get his feet planted, to look around... It's no use as someone— _the Weeping Angel_ —grabs his right wrist. He can only stumble like Frankenstein's monster as he follows her.

Behind him, the beast continues to shriek. Its prey momentarily lost to the dark night.

Little by little his senses return. He gains sight of how they're twisting and weaving through alleys, over rubble and body parts. He has the wherewithal to focus on fleeing instead of heaving over the gore. Luckily, they reach port the blue chick landed on all those hours ago. Immediately, it garners his entire focus. His eyes widen.

The amount of ships is staggering. Far as his eyes can see there are shuttles and wonders he's never imagined. He'd give anything to explore, to seek out all the curiosities found here. None of the ships look anything like what he's seen on Earth, and that includes what he thinks are basic designs. If he had time, he'd ask the owners to look at the mechanics. Perhaps he could build more efficient transportation.

Of course, the owners would have to be alive...

The Weeping Angel suddenly drops his hand, and it's then he sinks to his knees.

His engine is far past empty. Exhaustion burns his limbs as if he's on a pyre. Every labored breath brings another sharp stab to his chest. All he wants is to fall over. To sleep. To _...die?_

"One of these ships will work."

He looks up at her, clothed in black. He's far past well-winded while she looks like she's merely been sitting on the couch all day. He knows he's aging, but he can't be that bad off, yet.

Can he?

"I doubt all of them have been scrapped for parts, yet," she continues, voice barely above a whisper. "Any of them will be easy to take."

"And then what do we do?"

The Weeping Angel turns towards him, brow arched. "We? No. _You_ will leave."

"And you?"

"I can handle myself," she replies and turns for another alleyway.

Grunting, he rises to his feet. He coughs roughly before calling out. "With those creatures?"

The severity of her gaze lets Tony know he's spoken too loudly. Wincing, he mouths, _I'm sorry._

The chill that creeps up his spine, however, lets him know it's too late.

She doesn't have time to turn for cover as the air behind her gives that summer shimmer. Her jaw drops.

 _Please!_ Tony's right hand touches the reactor. He _has_ to save her. She _can't_ die for his mistake. He can't lose someone else for _his_ faults.

Fate must agree since the repulsor forms on his palm. Without hesitation, he aims and shoots. The black and gold beast explodes into a million pieces as do the nanites on his hand.

The Weeping Angel looks back at him, expression full of disbelief. In the next second, she rushes back, grabs his hand and flees for the docks.

In the distance, a chorus of shrieks hunt them.

* * *

— _Incoming Transmission_ —

 _Hello, hello!_

 _As a reminder, the mobile app is funky. I'm not sure if you're getting updates._

 _Also, to those who have reviewed, followed, and fav'd. I can't thank you enough. I am completely humbled by your kindnesses more than words can explain. I am also extremely encouraged._

 _Thank you for everything you do._

 _As always, hit the follow button to make your life easier._

 _Lastly, hope you're enjoying. If you are, let me know._

— _End Transmission_ —


	4. Failure

A million miles an hour. That's how fast he's certain his heart is racing.

Which is slow compared to his mind.

 _Thanos. And. Dust. If. Promises. You. Table. Died._

 _Table?_

The table beneath him might be cushioned, or it might just play host to the burning spikes inserted in his body from head to toe. His injuries are far more grievous than he's ever received, and _that_ includes needing a car battery to survive.

There is no return from this. No way to reverse what's happened. No universe in which he survives.

The pyre on which he sits will host his last breath.

That is, unless the Weeping Angel can perform miracles.

She stands to the left of him. Disheveled blonde hair, greasy and more of a caramel color closest to the scalp. Dirt smudges across skin that hasn't seen daylight in ages. Dark circles underneath a narrowed gaze.

 _Vampire?_

Tony shifts as she removes the shreds of his shirt. Choking back a gasp, he winces as her fingers move deftly over fresh wounds and tender bruises. Each place she presses hurts worse than before, and somehow, he knows he deserves it all.

 _Fourteen million. I. Six. Feel. Hundred. Like. And five…_

He deserves death.

Until she pulls out a tray full of medical utensils he's never seen before. Metal instruments twisted in ways he'd never imagine, bent in forms that don't make sense. It's then all those alien autopsy torture stories have Tony rethinking his trip to space.

"Look," he coughs, lungs burning as he squirms away from her. "I'm pretty sure you don't take my insurance and I'm not looking for an out of network bill. Those are super costly—"

"What planet do you hail from that's asinine enough to speak when Outriders are _present_?!" she snarls, ice thick in her tone as she clearly disregards anything he has to say. "Earth?!"

Tony swallows back one reply in exchange for another. "Who's piloting this ship?"

The Weeping Angel side-eyes him before letting out a heavy sigh. She runs a hand over her face and leans her forehead against her palm. "Shit… You're an Earther."

"Ta-da?" he sing-songs before trying not to hack up a lung.

From icy to frantic in seconds, the Weeping Angel hooks several wires to him, the last of which confirms his heart is beating uncontrollably. He's not sure where she procures a jar from, but her fingers are slick with a soft blue gel from it. She slathers it over what are _possibly_ less severe wounds—probably to staunch some of the bleeding.

 _If she ca—_

He cries out, and it echoes throughout the room. He's not sure which wound caused it since they all bring agony.

 _Thanos. And if. Promises. You. Dust. Died…_

Her attention is drawn to his shoulder. He's completely unprepared for her swift movements which pop it back into place. He's also surprised that she doesn't even flinch as he screams. Breath jagged, he doesn't have the strength to fight the tears slithering freely down his face.

 _I feel… Fourteen million. Like. Six hundred. That's. And five…_

Her watchful gaze catches everything. He can't even pretend to be a strong man because the pain is so overwhelming. It sears through his every thought, jumbling it into a warped mixture he works so desperately to sort out.

The only positive is that her glare softens into a more neutral gaze.

 _On me…_

Releasing a burning breath, Tony struggles to breathe. "You from… You from Warf Hell—"

 _This_ coughing jag brings a metallic taste to his mouth.

The Weeping Angel doesn't respond. Her brow quirks as fingers gently press around his ribcage. He recoils at a soft spot on his left side, writhes onto the table, and gasps for air. Dark spots fill the world around him.

 _And if you died, I feel like that's on me…_

Eyes scrunched closed, he begs for death. Screams for it. The pain is unbearable. Physically. Emotionally. Each breath worse than the last. Knives slowly tearing into lungs ripping the breath from him.

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

"Adopted a new pet, Rogers? I heard those can be good for the elderly."

The calming monotony of the _swish-swish_ halts. Steve pauses mid-sweep to look up at Natasha. She leans against the remains of a building, arms crossed, sly smile on those red lips of hers. Voice low and smoky as always.

He chuckles. "Nah, made a friend. Maybe you should try it sometime."

"Funny, Rogers, but we know people are more likely to befriend a senior citizen." With a smirk, Natasha looks over at the raccoon picking up trash several feet from them. "Cute little creature. Heard they can be quite vicious."

"So, you're relatives?" Steve teases as he goes back to sweeping. _Swish-swish._

"I'm cute?" She bats those long eyelashes of hers and flips her blonde hair.

"Vicious," he corrects.

"Pretty funny for an ancient artifact," she scoffs with a roll of her eyes. Sighing, Natasha tilts her head slightly as if that makes her appear less formidable. "He remind you of anyone we know?"

 _Swish-swish. Swish-swish-swish._ "Me, to an extent."

"Come on, Steve."

He shrugs. _Swish…_

"Winter Soldier ring any bells?"

 _Swi—_

Drifting into the breeze. Starting with a metal arm. Slowly enveloping an entire figure. Dust. The gun _thunks_ against the soft forest floor just as the broom _thunks_ against the sidewalk.

He can't think about that.

Not now. Not tomorrow. Not _ever_.

He has people depending on him. Looking for him to lead. He has a plan to come up with. People need him to solve this crisis. People need to be reassured. People need…

 _Bucky needed me, and I failed him._

No.

If he pushes it out of his mind, if he doesn't think about what happened, there's still a chance Bucky could be out there. All he has to do is track him down again, find his hideout. Remind him who he is.

But in trying to escape reality, he ends up at another treacherous place.

 _Sam…_

 _He died alone…_

 _And I haven't even spared him a passing thought._

"We all lost people," Steve tells her, ignoring the fact he sounds just like the raccoon. It's about all he's capable of because truth be told, he can't think about this. Can't stay here. Can't listen to Natasha.

Picking up the broom, he shoves it into her hands. Steve sidesteps her and turns a corner. He just needs a moment. Needs space.

The world tilts around him, spinning faster and faster. It's dizzy. It's maddening. Something he's not entirely familiar with. The black spots. Shortness of breath. Round and around he goes on a twisted carousel he can't get off.

 _Steve?_

His heart beats roughly against his rib cage. Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if it ends up bruised. Might be the least of his concerns. He's in desperate need of a joke, a laugh, and neither Bucky nor Sam are there to provide it.

He's not on anyone's left.

"Want me to scratch her eyes out?"

Slow breaths leave his lips as his heart calms. The world begins to steady beneath his feet. Rubbing a hand over his face and through his hair, his muscles relax.

Looking to his right, Steve sees Rocket's followed him.

Like always.

And not for one moment does Steve miss the irony of being on the raccoon's left. _God works in mysterious ways…_

Blinking back tears, he shakes his head.

"Debris in your eye?" Rocket asks but doesn't appear to be looking for an answer. He simply walks beside him as they continue through the streets. It's quiet, nearly silent, with only ambient noise and far-off voices.

Coming to the edge of town, Steve stops to gaze at the lake.

Despite everything that lies behind, the water is peaceful and tranquil—unlike the large building they stand near which has been reduced to rubble. How is it that something so large, so fragile, is left so unaffected? One touch produces ripples. One toxic dump and it's destroyed. Yet, an army of space aliens attack and the lake has withstood the slaughter.

 _How is that so?_

Steve begins to follow the water's edge. It's mushy and slippery, but stable compared to how he feels inside. Calm compared to the turmoil within. And it isn't long before his boots are caked in it which isn't terrible since he hasn't showered in days.

However, it's probably not easy for the little raccoon to navigate.

Glancing back, he notices Rocket hasn't followed but is instead eying the building.

"What is it?" Steve asks.

One paw bats at him for silence. Ears pointing forward, nose twitching, the raccoon moves slowly at first. One foot after the other, even going so far as to lower himself onto his forepaws. His head tilts left then right. As he comes to part of the fallen cement building, his gaze narrows.

"I think there's someone under here."

Steve rushes to the raccoon's side. Bending at the knees, he grabs the bottom of the wall. "I'll lift, you run under and check. Ready?"

"I ain't—" Eyes wide, Rocket pauses, then takes a deep breath and sets his gun to the side. "Don't kill me, Shield Boy."

"Promise," Steve says with a smile before lifting the fallen wall.

Fast as lightning, the raccoon scurries under. Rocks scuffle about underneath. There're a few deep sniffs along with a heavy grunt, but Rocket doesn't return.

His arms shake, and Steve can feel his muscles giving out. However, he made a promise, and he doesn't intend on breaking it. Not even if he pulls a ligament or breaks a bone.

He won't let the raccoon die.

There won't be more needless bloodshed.

He's gasping as the raccoon drags a body from the wreckage. As soon as they're clear, Steve drops the cement. Panting, he closes his eyes and he falls to his knees.

He hasn't lifted that amount of weight since trying to keep the helicopter from—

 _No._

Once he's caught his breath, Steve looks to see Rocket slowly rising and studying the teenage girl they've just saved.

Steve's brow rises as he checks her pulse. "Your Highness?"

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

 _I don't need that…_

The first time he wakes, the world flashes before his eyes. There're glimpses of colors he's never seen, a low humming in his ears. Head lolling to the right, he sees the Weeping Angel down to a torn undershirt and trying to patch some massive wounds of her own.

 _…on my conscience._

The next time he wakes, the world slowly filters into view. He doesn't hurt anymore. Sure, his muscles ache but he's no longer in pain. In fact, he can breathe again. Looking around, he sees the Weeping Angel sitting feet from him, fidgeting with something in her hands.

"Seriously, is no one driving this thing?" His voice rough and coarse in his throat.

"Are you so simple, you do not have autopilot on Earth?"

"We do," he responds, cheeks warm. Maybe making an asshole out of himself isn't currently the best idea. Clearing his throat, he tries again. "Thank you for saving my life."

She nods, eyes on the object in her hand. "Yes, I suppose a thanks is in order."

His brow quirks in amusement at her haughtiness. He wonders if every being beyond Earth has a complex such as hers. If so, Earth's arrogance seems humble in comparison.

"Although you brought the Outriders with your loud chattering, I would not have made it off that dock had you not used whatever power source this is."

The feeling that hits him he can't quite place. There's something about the way she speaks, the way she phrases her words, that leads him to believe she's not as prideful as he assumes. After all, she did thank him despite it being his fault. Perhaps her culture acts a certain way.

It still doesn't let her off the hook, though. "That's a backhanded comment if I've ever heard one."

She gives a shrug. "Don't mistake my honesty for lack of gratefulness. I do recognize I would not have survived."

Tony nods, thinking there might be a balance between pride and humility he doesn't yet understand. In any case, he's fearful he'll chase away, or worse kill, the Weeping Angel. He can't take the loss of someone else because of him.

Plus, he's so far from Earth with no one to help him except her.

Standing, she walks to him. The fingers of her right hand gently move over the holographic information displayed on the edge of his bed. "God smiled upon you."

"You have God out here?" he questions, curiosity piqued. _Steve would get a kick out of that._

Tired green eyes meet his gaze. "You assume Earth to be the only one with beliefs."

Currently, he doesn't know what he assumes. He's never left the planet. How could he have ever guessed the universe was…

Blinking, he notices in the glowing object in her hands is _his_ arc reactor. As she continues to study the holograph, her fingers absentmindedly trace the grooves.

"That's mine, yanno," he says with a nod at it.

She looks down. Focus chasing away some of the exhaustion in her gaze. "Your energy is so…archaic."

"You're too kind," he deadpans and rolls both shoulders. Neither hurt which he finds fascinating since one was definitely dislocated. "Are you a doctor?"

"Everyone living in Warf Hell, as you deemed it, depends on themselves for survival," she answers, fingers pulling up a new set of vitals.

His head tilts. "So… there are no doctors out here? Just amateurs like you, Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman?"

"What do you mean Doctor Quinn?"

"It's a _joke_ ," he explains, trying to emphasize the point. "One where you _laugh_."

"I see," she replies and taps a few of the holograms. "Perhaps it is better understood in context."

"She's from a television show. On… Earth."

She gives a curt nod, before tapping a few more holographs. "A place I am not from. I think therein lies the issue with your… _humor_."

"Obviously," he replies and purses his lips. If she isn't going to find him funny, it's sure to be a very long ride to Earth.

Her gaze flicks to his for a moment before she studies another reading. "What identifier do they give you, Earther?"

"Identifier?"

Her lips purse as she eyes him. "Name."

"Oh." He opens his mouth.

Only to close it again.

For once, he doesn't have an answer. He's not known in the universe. And if he was, would he be welcomed anywhere? Would any open their homes to him? Especially after he let Thanos win?

Clearing his throat, he gives her the only name he can think of. "Edward. Friends call me Eddie."

Her brow rises like she knows he's lying but says nothing. Instead, she clears the holograms and takes a step back. "Well, Edward, I believe you are healed."

Pushing himself into a seated position, Tony looks at his smooth skin. He checks for the wound in his side. Winces at the memory of Thanos slicing him through with his own blade. However, it's as if the wound was never there.

His fingers rise to the scar from his reactor.

"That could not be removed," she responds, shifting towards him. "The others are more recent or made with simple items: knives, a bullet, you understand. Whatever was here, though, was…an anomaly."

He nods to the reactor still in her grasp. "A version of that."

"I understand." She looks down at it. "Humans are not meant for such things, even if it is archaic."

Tony doesn't have the slightest idea what that's supposed to mean.

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

 _What did it cost?_

The smell of fresh green grass wakes him.

 _Life._

So vibrant. So fresh. So rich.

It calms him where the dream does not. He is well aware of the cost, and he doesn't need the reminder. No, he is prepared to spend the rest of his days keeping the universe in order. Keeping them taken care of. Keeping them safe.

…

Or so he tells them.

* * *

— _Incoming Transmission_ —

Goodness _, gracious!_

 _Sorry for the super late post._

 _After finals, I came down with a horrible cold I'm still getting over._

 _Thank you for being patient with me as I recover. I am so grateful for the reviews and follows and fav's_ _. I can't thank you enough. It has greatly encouraged me and helped me._

 _Thank you for being awesome._

 _As always, hit the follow button to make your life easier._

 _Lastly, if you catch something, let me know._ _I'm only human._

 _Also, hope you're enjoying. If you are, let me know._

— _End Transmission_ —


	5. Wave After Wave

Ears back, Rocket smooths out his tail. Fur sticks every which way from towel drying, and it's a feeling he hates more than anything. It reminds him of needles jammed into his hide countless times. His lip lifts at the memories that never quite go away. Shaking his pelt in hopes of being rid of the ghosts, cold air sneaks past his fur and causes him to shiver as it chills his skin.

Rocket tugs a white shirt over his head which covers down to his knees. He finds Earther outfits odd, but at least he's warmer for the moment. Drawing a deep breath, he's met by the most awful, stomach-turning stench. With a rough cough, he looks over at the human.

One hand across his chest, the other with a fist to his mouth, the Earther looks out the window. Red rays streak through grey clouds mixing into some twisted version of violet and indigo. Lights fade. The city is cast into darkness.

The sun sets.

His face softens. _What would a captain say?_

With that thought, he suddenly doesn't want to be the captain anymore. He doesn't want to have the conversation, because only one exchange would shift the atmosphere. Only one topic needs to be discussed. However, havin' that talk won't remove the heavy feeling, so why bother?

 _Dad._

He grits his teeth. "You Earthers against bathing?"

The human turns to him and shakes his head. "No?"

He runs his paws through the fur on his tail. "Then take a frickin' shower. You reek."

The Earther hesitates. When he glances out the window, Rocket realizes the human thinks something worse will happen. As if anything could _be_ worse than what's already happened.

"I'll keep the Earth from burning down," he exasperates with a roll of his eyes. "All I want is the ability to breathe again."

The Earther seems satisfied with that reply because he obliges and enters the bathroom.

 _Good riddance!_ Ears twitching, Rocket sighs as the water starts. Swallowing roughly, he looks down his trembling claws. His brow scrunches because he doesn't understand—

 _Dad._

His body shakes, trembling violently, and he can't stop it. No matter how hard he tries all he sees is dust which forms into red ashes in the dark of space. His teeth clench before he lets out a screech which turns into a whimper as tears streak through his fur.

 _Dad._

Closing his eyes, he turns his head. A slow, jagged breath leaves his lungs.

He can't stay here. Can't be in the freezing room. Can't be with a stinkin' human.

The place suddenly seems smaller than the cage he was kept in, tortured in, nearly destroyed in. Struggling to breathe, he clambers onto all fours as he attempts to get to his feet.

Rocket isn't sure where he's headed, just knows he needs to break out. His wandering is aimless as he ambles down hallways. He's invisible to the few he passes. Not that he expects them to say much. He is no one to them. A nothing.

Like he's been to everyone.

A soft beeping brings him to a halt. Looking up, his head tilts and eyes narrow. He isn't sure how he found his way to the female Earther's medical chamber, nor he is quite certain why he stays. However, he does notice she's alone, so he climbs onto the edge of her bed.

Here, too, there's a chill in the room. He knows the cold is for sanitary purposes. After all, that's how the labs were kept. Still, it makes his fur itch like the few times he's had fleas.

Putting a paw on her covered foot, Rocket lowers his head. He knows what it's like to be alone. To have no one. And if there's anything that will hinder the healing process, it's isolation. He witnessed those trials. Watched countless left alone. Only the very strongest survived.

Regardless of how strong this human is, there's no need for the risk. There's no need to walk that line. No need to tempt fate.

So, he vows to stay by her side 'til she wakes.

The smell of water and soap tingles his whiskers and he breathes in deep. Rocket looks to the door and sees the human entering. His shoulders sink in relief at the fresh scent. The clean air is desperately needed.

The Earther comes to a halt beside him, and his arms fold across a similar white shirt. "The doctors aren't sure she'll pull through."

Rocket looks up at him, brow lifted in curiosity. "Oh yeah? And what do you think?"

"They say there are multiple contusions—"

He snorts and shakes his head. "Doctors, smoctors. We both know they ain't half as right as they think they are, and they're more wrong than you Earthers would like them to be."

Shifting his weight to his right foot, the Earther tilts his head with a confused look. "What do you mean?"

Rocket gives a dry chuckle. "Livin' or dying, always a gamble, right? Like which of us got turned to dust or had to remain in this shithole. Situations like this though, there's the off chance of fighting through. Does this Earther have the will to fight and avenge, or… she gonna follow her dead family? _If_ she can follow 'em, that is."

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

If she could wipe the blinding tears from her weary gaze, she would. If she could go back and unsee the local merchant turning to dust, she would. If she could forget the atrocities the universe holds, she would.

However, that is not a gift bestowed upon anyone. She knows you cannot turn back time nor can you permanently erase memories. Thus, it's been the longest seventy-two hours of her life.

 _"No ships?"_

 _She shakes her head, eyes turned towards the shattered ground._

 _He gazes at the port, at the countless crafts lying desolate. "Yeah, we don't have_ any _options."_

 _Looking at the Midgardian, she swallows roughly. "These vessels do not work. They are missing components, engines are faulty, segments destroyed."_

 _"So,_ fix _one of them."_

 _Again, she shakes her head. "I can pilot, but I haven't picked up the mechanics."_

 _"You're kidding."_

 _She winces, head dropping as the gravity of the situation falls on her shoulders._

 _"I call bullshit," he continues._

 _"It is a truth, Ear—Edward. I have not had time to learn."_

Placing her last hope in the Midgardian is certainly not the most feasible notion, but since she has no knowledge of how to repair a vessel, she is left with no alternative. He did say his Midgardian degrees make him some sort of mechanical prodigy.

As if Earth has ever been more advanced.

Even at their highest capability, they are still infants compared to the rest of the universe.

So, she keeps being told.

 _Whether there's truth in that remains to be seen,_ she thinks as she pulls a bow from the wreckage. Sighing, she wishes it was something other than a Kree soul bow. She'd prefer a blaster of sorts. Even if beggars can't be choosers is that too much to ask?

The seeming brush of a whisper chills the tear streaks beneath her oxygen mask face. Shrinking into the shadows, she watches as the ash-skinned daldemace floats across the destruction. It's slimy jaws and ember eyes seek a fresh feast. Holding her breath, she prays the demon didn't see her.

That is not something she can contend with right now.

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

The sky is tinted like a freshly picked apple…or blood. The sound of wind blows softly in the distance. Comforting…yet eerily quiet. The air is fresh and clean…which is odd in the absence of plant life.

Rising to his feet, he looks down. Water covers his boots and yet he feels nothing. It's neither wet nor cold. A frightening fact that brings his gaze up from the reflective ground surrounding him to the red colored horizon.

Silence.

Desolation.

Emptiness.

He draws in slow breaths. "Where the hell—"

"Well, if it isn't Sam Wilson."

Spinning, his eyes widen, jaw drops. Before him is a young face he never thought he'd see on this side again. A face he hasn't seen since he watched the coffin lower six feet under the earth and dirt.

 _No._

 _No way._

 _This isn't real._

"Nothing to say, Sammy?"

Clearing his throat, he pinches himself. "Riley, what's your sorry ass doing here?"

"Million-dollar question, right?" the man answers, brown hair ruffling gently in the breeze. "I think the better one though, is, what are _you_ doing here?"

Sam doesn't have an answer for that, because, hell, he doesn't even know where _here_ is. Last he remembers, there was a battle. There were aliens in Wakanda. And a weird feeling, like dry, coarse sand running over his skin.

Then… nothing.

No, not nothing.

 _Thanos._

Riley's brown eyes look around. "Where is this place anyhow?"

Sam takes a step closer as he watches for any sign of hostiles. Last thing he needs is another attack, and if Riley appeared who knows what else is waiting. "I'm not sure."

"Kind of odd," his old wingman says. "Don't you think?"

He doesn't respond. Can't respond. _None_ of this makes any sense.

Instead, he shifts his shoulders and realizes his Exo-7 is still attached. Spinning like a dog chasing his tail, he looks at his pack.

"No way." Sam laughs as peace washes over him. At least if trouble comes, he has some sort of defense. He won't be completely outmatched.

"Been a while since I've seen that," Riley chuckles. "Glad to see yours is still intact."

Pausing, Sam winces. The reminder of why Riley is not with him anymore settles heavy on his chest. He takes a few unsteady steps towards his wingman. "Riley…there's not a day that goes by—"

"Save it, Wilson." He holds up a hand and smiles wide. "Stop beating yourself up about it. Neither of us could have predicted that happening. It's definitely not your fault. We gave our lives for our country, right?"

Tears well in his eyes. He's spent years dealing with guilt and sorrow from Riley's demise. Spent years trying to forget and help others. Spent years wondering if Riley blamed him.

Now, with the truth before him, the heaviness lifts. He can breathe normally. So, Sam steps forward, arms open for an embrace.

That's when he touches it. The invisible wall between them.

And just like that, Riley fades to nothing.

* * *

— _Incoming Transmission_ —

 _Happy whatever day you read this!_

 _Thank you for being patient since life has been busy._

 _I don't have words for all the reviews, follows, and fav's. I am so humbled and they keep me going._

 _Thank you for being such amazing readers!_

 _As always, hit the follow button to make your life easier._ _If you catch something, let me know._ _I'm only human._

 _Lastly, hope you're enjoying. If you are, let me know._

— _End Transmission_ —


	6. Silence

The world is silent.

Not that it helps. After all, it _is_ his fault.

The quiet. The stillness.

It's all on him.

 _He_ told Vision they don't trade lives.

In trying to save the android, he brought the full army of Thanos to Wakanda. In trying to save one life, they lost thousands.

Millions.

 _Billions?_

Now, the city is in ruin, and the survivors mourn because _he_ said they don't trade lives.

Yet, he did.

"I know you Earthers need sleep," Rocket growls. Shifting, his tail curls tighter around his compact body as he presses into Steve's stomach.

Blinking, he pauses, fingers weaved in the raccoon's fur. There's something comforting about the warmth the creature provides. Something lulling that doesn't quite put him to sleep, but he doesn't see dust for a change. Doesn't hear his name over and over.

Not that he deserves peace.

"Quill was from Earth," Rocket says in a hushed grumble. "He needed sleep."

"Don't you need sleep?"

"Eh, if I get some I get some."

"That's no way to live."

Rocket snorts. "Sleeping on the ground is?"

Curled on his side with the rough, scratchy carpet beneath him, Steve uses his other arm as a pillow. He looks out the darkened window before him with his back to the bed. "Pillowtop's not always the most comfortable."

"Not when you're used to sleeping on the ground," the raccoon growls. "Stone and metal seem to get the job done."

The comment sends a wave of sorrow over him, flooding his senses… and thoughts. He thinks only of Sam in that moment. Of the shared understanding. Even before they failed to locate him on the field, Steve knew. Knew what happened to Buck had happened to Sam.

 _Dust…_

Swallowing roughly, he allows the moment to pass before he looks at Rocket. "Been fighting your whole life?"

Rocket sits, ears flattened against his skull. Shifting, he puts his head against Steve's stomach like a trusting dog as fear shines in those dark eyes. Fighting off a yawn, his tail curls around him again.

"Everyone's got a past," Steve prods, hoping to find out _something_ about the talking raccoon.

"Yeah, well, I sure as hell don't wanna talk about it," Rocket growls, gaze turning to the window as tears well in his eyes. "Just… go the hell to sleep."

A sad smile lights his cracked lips as he looks at the raccoon. His hand moves gently to scratching Rocket behind the ears. "I'll try."

Glaring at him, the raccoon's nose twitches like he's going to bare his teeth. Instead, he yawns and closes his eyes. "Don't get used to this."

"I won't."

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

Tony would rather be gazing out a viewport watching twinkling stars and space dust NASA would kill to see. He'd rather be trapped under rubble, struggling to breathe and feeling the life drain from his body. He'd rather face down Thanos alone and be stabbed through the gut again.

He'd rather be anywhere but where he currently is.

With breath louder than his thoughts, he thanks God the Weeping Angel hasn't left him on this forsaken planet. She very well could have. She could have given him the spacesuit he's in—which fails to stop the chills from running up and down his spine. She could have given him the breathing apparatus that keeps fresh air in his lungs. She could have left him.

Left him on a planet where they haven't seen or heard _anything_ since their ship crashed hours ago. The fires that ravaged the city were nothing more than smoldering flames lurking beneath rubble when they arrived. Ships were strewn throughout the port. Glass shattered.

But he hasn't seen a single soul.

Unless you count the not-quite-visible shadow following him _everywhere_.

Which is completely unnerving. Sure, he knows that Thanos wiped out half the universe, but doesn't that mean only half a planet? Not an entire planet? Or does that mean those souls became…whatever is stalking him?

Regardless of the answer, his fingers fly over the engine's broken circuits. Of the ships they explored, this is the only one not fried to hell or missing… practically everything. With this one, he at least has a fighting chance.

Provided he can actually fix technology more advanced than anything he's dreamt. More advanced than he can _believe_.

Glancing out the cargo hold, he wonders when the Weeping Angel will return. _If_ she will return. If she found a working ship, would she leave him? Hell, part of him wonders if she'd have left by now had she not needed him. If she had known how to repair a ship—

 _She's just a child._

His fingers slow as the thought weighs heavy on his chest. She's not more than twenty-five by his best guess. She shouldn't be running for her life. Shouldn't know this much pain and suffering. Shouldn't know this amount of fear—because if she doesn't think he sees it in her eyes, she's wrong.

Perhaps it's better that Pete isn't here to witness the end.

 _Just another kid,_ he thinks as he makes a few more tweaks to the panel. Another little child left facing the grim realities of this universe. Another one far too young facing something so much bigger than they're capable of dealing with.

 _Makes us all the same in the end,_ he decides because how many times has war and brokenness ripped through Earth and left children orphaned?

 _Yinsen's kids._

 _Harley._

 _Wanda…_

Tony's fingers shake, and he pulls his hands from the panel before they destroy any of the delicate wirings. Is he any better than Thanos? He was once responsible for destruction. Coined the phrase Merchant of Death. His own bomb nearly murdered him. Ultron nearly destroyed the planet.

Trembling hands raise to his head, and he covers his face. This is all his fault. Every last bit of it.

"Tony…"

He nearly jumps out of his skin as he looks towards the ramp. Breath catches in his throat as tears well in his eyes. The world around him goes silent.

 _Steve?_

Swallowing roughly, Tony can only gaze at the man staggering up the ramp. The beard is new, but everything else is just as he remembers it. Blond hair, white star, blue eyes…

Tony can't find his voice, but that's not a problem because what does he say? Can he say? Should he say?

After all, he's made a mess of their friendship as well.

The man coughs, blood trickles down his lip. "Tony… You could have saved us."

Stark stumbles a few steps forward. "I tried. I tried to stop Thanos."

"You didn't try…hard enough…" Steve stumbles, clutching a wound at his gut.

Tony rushes to catch him. He's only stopped as an electrical arrow bursts through the white star. Steve's eyes widen then erupt into embers. His skin cracks and crumbles revealing grey skin as the embers darken and the body falls to the ground.

 _Steve…_

The Weeping Angel trots up the ramp and looks at him. "I erred. I chose to neglect the threat."

Mouth agape, he gazes at his friend's carcass. He can't move as she kicks it down the ramp. His mind blurs into a jumbled mess of thoughts. How did Steve get this far? What is he doing out here? Is he alone? How could the Weeping Angel kill a human? Does she do this often?

"The demon takes the form of what troubles you."

Blinking, he looks at her as her words slowly compute. "What… troubles me?"

She nods as if he didn't just watch a teammate get murdered. As if everyone should understand what he just witnessed. As if _he_ should understand what she said.

Attaching the bow to her back, she presses a few buttons on the cargo doors as if there's not a care in the world.

A shriek in the distance snaps both their heads towards the town as the ramp grinds to a close.

She tenses, body rigid as a statue. There are several long, silent breaths before her muscles shift. Turning to him, there's fear in those eyes and the faint shimmer of tear streaks down her cheeks. When she speaks, he can hear the terror she's trying so hard to bottle up. "Is that fixed?"

Tony's heart pounds against his ribs. Trembling, his mouth opens and closes like a fish. He knows what that shriek signifies. He knows they can't battle those black and gold beasts again.

"Can this vessel fly, Edward?" she questions, tone stern, but her gloved fingers brush against his shoulder causing him to relax from the bit of warmth she provides.

Turning to the panel, he tweaks a few more wires before closing it. "That should do it."

Silently, she moves through the cargo bay, past the kitchen, and to a door on the far side. As he follows, his heavy footsteps are soundless in the spacesuit she scavenged earlier. Neat, in a way, but he's sure it'll keep those beasts from finding him.

Entering behind her, he gazes at the small cockpit.

There's room for maybe six, squished people total— _if_ you include the two folding benches on the walls next to him. Before him, two grey, weathered seats sit in front of a panel stretching from one side the tiny cockpit to the other.

"If I'm correct, this is a smartship," she informs, walking to the control panel and pressing a few buttons. The lights flicker on and a soft hum resonates around them. "I do not believe it will bring you all the way to Earth, but there is a likely chance it will be able to make most of the journey."

He looks at her. "You're not going with me?"

"I'll accompany you as far as the next stop. By there, you should find a vessel able to take you the rest of the way," she says, flicking a few switches. "I am just sorry I cannot find any Jumpers for you."

"Jumpers?"

"Ships that can jump spans of the universe," she informs and settles into the seat on the left. "Perhaps you will find a vessel with a warp drive."

"And this?"

"The one that has the most likely chance of flying, but I do not think the drives can be repaired." She looks at the town, worry flooding every feature of her masked face. "We just need it to get off this planet."

Settling in the copilot's seat, he again looks at the control panel. There are colors of every kind blinking or flashing at random intervals and speeds. Some even glow permanently. His heart begins to pick up pace as dread creeps over his veins. He knows what's coming if they don't get off this planet.

Looking at her, he can see the scrunched face beneath the space mask. The panic growing in her eyes.

"What can I do?"

She trembles as she looks across the panels, fingers hitting random buttons faster and faster. "The interface has been removed."

"Can we fly without it?"

Biting her lip, she meets his gaze. "It's a smartship. Just like a human, it needs a _brain_."

 _Brain?_ Tony's eyes narrow before he pulls the reactor from his chest. "Show me where to plug her in."

Her brow lifts and she swallows roughly.

"It's not as advanced as…" He gestures to the board. "All this, but she can think. That's what you need, _right_?"

The Weeping Angel shifts off her chair and kneels in front of the control board. Between the seats lies a small panel which she flips open. "I believe it to go here."

He's next to her in moments. "You don't know?"

Looking at him, she shrugs. "I-I'm not sure it will soon matter."

 _Well, that's the truth._ Pulling a few wires, Tony then pops off parts of the reactor. He connects metal to where he would place it, or where it seems to fit. With a spark, he's barely completed the entire circuit as the entire ship goes dark.

Breath logged in his throat, he places a hand on her shoulder. He certain he'll die, but he'll also give his dying breath in hopes she can make it off the ship.

A screech comes over the cockpit, startling both of them. He feels her shudder before a soft voice greets them. "Good morning, Boss. Where to?"

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

The world is silent.

Not that he minds.

It's better this way.

There's no pain. No suffering. No fighting.

Just the red hazy sky above him and the soft breeze around him to keep him company. Still his thoughts. Chase his demons away. A smile crosses his features as he closes his eyes and breathes deep.

 _No missions._

Excitement wells in his stomach, bubbling over the brink and flooding his bones. That thought is _so_ tantalizing. Never harming another person. Never taking another life. Never giving a damn.

Throwing an arm over his forehead, his face scrunches. Should he give a damn?

 _I_ should _give a damn._

Yet, he doesn't.

He knows he should be worried. He should be looking at his surroundings. He should be trying to figure out what the hell happened.

But…the quiet is peaceful, and he hasn't felt this way since before 1942.

So, is it bad that he takes time for himself?

 _No_ , he decides with a deep breath out. It's not a bad thing, because there are no demons here. There is nothing to haunt him or remind him of times past. There is no sorrow.

Only peace.

"James?"

His eyes open. Staring at the sky, he hesitates, waiting to see if they'll— _she'll?_ —call again.

"James?"

A woman steps into his line of sight and gives him a soft smile.

His arm slides off the top of his head and flops into the water. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a spark flickers to life. He should know this woman. She's familiar, but the fog in his brain is still too thick to remember. His heart, on the other hand, speaks for him.

"Mom?"

Sitting up with a soft splash, a flash of silver catches his eye. His cheeks burn as he moves his left arm behind him. _Out of sight, out of mind,_ he thinks because she won't be proud of _that_. His gaze drops to the black outfit he's wearing, and his heart spikes fearing the mask will cover his face next.

"James…"

Ever so slowly, he looks up at her, afraid to meet her gaze. Lips pressed together, his heart's a heavy ball of lead in his chest.

"Ah, the mark of war," she says gently, head tilting to look at the red star set upon a silver arm. Sighing soft as the breeze, there's pain reflected in her blue-grey eyes as she kneels in the water before him. Her hands smooth out her black and white polka-dotted dress before resting in her lap. "James, you can't stay here."

His brow furrows, and he shakes his head slowly.

"No," she reiterates, right side of her lips gently twitching upward in understanding. "But you already know that don't you?"

He gives a nod. "Yes, ma'am."

And he does. He knows this is all too good to be true. Knows this is all too good for him. Knows there's no peace for someone like him.

With a sigh, he runs a hand through his shaggy, brown hair. To the left of her, movement catches his eye. Looking past her, he spots a tiny, white wolf pup playing in the water.

* * *

— _Incoming Transmission_ —

 _If I haven't thanked you for your kind support or can't, please know from the bottom of my heart I am super grateful._

 _To make your life easier, hit the follow button._

 _If you catch something or you're enjoying, let me know._ _I'm only human._

— _End Transmission_ —


	7. Deceiving Appearances

His goal is to gaze at nothing instead of the nightmares that plague the darkest corners of his conscious. He wants to give his burning eyes a break. To silence his ever-turning mind.

Hell, he'll destroy the cogs if that means they'll stop spinning and he can rest.

But that doesn't seem to fit into the plans since his eyes trace the oxygen mask draped across the back of her headrest a million times. They've watched as she's pulled her feet into the captain's chair she's curled in. They've observed the sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones that surprise him.

Stories on Earth favor the idea of species exploring, invading, and conquering.

Not beings struggling to survive.

Which begs the question, is there truly any difference between them?

Are they cruel like _Earthers?_

Are they selfish?

 _'Did you know?'_

Do they form alliances and then tear them apart? What is their higher form of warfare? Do they know how to seek peace?

Her gaze flicks to his, brow raised. Bloodshot eyes scan his body. He's well aware that he's staring but can't bring himself to stop. Her smooth skin, nose, fingers are all features he's seen on Earth. For one so alien, she seems…

 _Human_.

"Are you okay?" the Weeping Angel questions, head tilting slightly to the left.

Taking a deep breath, he looks out the viewport at the growing planet before them. Brownish in color like a world dead after nuclear warfare, Tony wonders if the gold and black beasts have made it here already. Is anywhere in the universe safe? Just how many people are suffering because he didn't defeat Thanos?

"I'm okay."

The words taste acidic, like heartburn sending scorching flames up his throat.

 _'I'm trying to keep you from tearing the Avengers apart!'_

Shifting, he looks at the rings they're approaching. "What's this?"

"Behemoth," she replies, gaze still focused on him.

He'd be a fool to believe she doesn't see the fractures across the surface of his psyche. Each one cracking larger and larger as time keeps the universe spinning. God, he's been such an idiot. He thought he could take on Thanos. Thought that using the very stones the mad titan did could have saved Earth. Even if Ultron hadn't gone so wrong, even if he hadn't had the fall out with Ste—

"Edward?"

Blinking, he clears his throat. "Behemoth?"

 _'He's my friend.'_

"Once a ringworld, now uninhabitable."

 _'So was I.'_

Gripping the armrest, Tony's focuses on her. On the steady breaths, slumped shoulders, frazzled hair. Something before him is still alive, but do they need his help?

 _No_.

She leans towards him. "Are you okay?"

"Why here?"

"I assumed you wanted a holiday after all you've been through."

Sneering, his gaze narrows. "On a dead planet?"

Pausing, he catches the slight twitch in her lips. The slight smirk in her weary gaze. Running his hand over his face, he sighs. "Sorry, I missed the joke."

"Clearly. Behemoth's ring still houses a port," she explains. Sitting up, the Weeping Angel taps a few buttons on the panel. "Its existence is in the dead space between galaxies. In this instance, between Andromeda and your Milky Way. With any luck, you'll find a vessel to take you home."

"Or on vacay," he comments and sees her crack a slightly larger smile.

There's something in that simple gesture that pushes thoughts of the past from his mind. For a moment, he can breathe. There's no mishaps, betrayals or dust to cloud his sight. Instead, just a stranger's smile telling him at this moment things are going to be okay.

Even if they never will.

Tony settles back in his seat as she guides the ship to a dock. It's there he pauses because he realizes there was a time where he would have spent days, weeks, even months studying the controls of the shuttle. He would have found himself lost in the engine, it's design and all the intricate parts. He would have pulled the ship apart and reconstructed it hundreds of times—probably better than it was put together.

He looks at her, wondering she's a bit of a mental mechanic. "Why are you helping me?"

"We have discussed this, yes?"

A slight jolt brings his attention to the station. His gaze travels the structure of the port. He's certain the formation is older than either of them yet seems sturdier than many things on Earth. Again, studying its mechanics would have been appealing in any other circumstance.

He watches as she rises from the seat. "Why?"

Popping the reactor from its nestled spot in the panel, she hands it to him. The Weeping Angel then motions for him to follow. "You are rare in this universe."

"Rare?" he questions as they approach the bay doors.

Nodding, her fingers fidget with a choker buried under the collar of her shirt. "I've only met a handful. Earthers are not prone to leave their planet. Your technology is not capable. You are unfit for space travel with your vessels and weapons. You may have tapped into the power of vibranium, or even nanites, but that is nothing compared to what lies in this vast universe."

"Gosh, Doctor Quinn, you could have just told me we're outmatched."

She glances to the side with a shrug. The doors open, and he tenses as some sort of rifle is pointed at them. Two beings, similar to enormous brown, bi-pedal lizards growl at them. In a softer, twisted growl, the Weeping Angel responds, and the lizards move to allow them passage down a narrow corridor.

"You are far more unprepared than you are aware," she continues as they move down a corridor. "That's why the treaty was put in place, to protect you."

"We've already had two invasions—"

"Both caused by Thanos," she remarks.

"Treaty worked really well then," he grumbles, because honestly if humans were meant to be protected why did no one save them?

Then again, this is what he was preparing for. This is what he was dreaming about for years. Why couldn't he save the Earth?

Running a hand over his goatee, he takes a breath. "What do you know of Thanos?"

Fingers fidgeting with the trinket on her choker, her brow quirks. "I believe the better inquiry is what do you know?"

Tony shrugs. "I know he obtained the stones he was looking for."

"Which would explain why so many have turned to dust." She pauses at a new threshold.

Tony's jaw drops as he looks at the mass of bodies—young and old—crowded in the large terminal. In several ways, it reminds him of an airport, however, the place is far larger than anything he's seen. In addition, there are creatures he's never seen. Some with tentacles, others' spikes, and many aliens of all shapes, colors, and sizes.

The one trait they all share is the look in their eyes that say they've seen hell and wish they didn't live to tell it.

As he stands next to her, he rubs the back of his neck. "If he wants peace, why did he wipe out half the universe to get it?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"He told me… After he stabbed me with my own sword."

Her gaze flits to the wound she healed. Stepping to him, she looks him in the eyes. Her voice is little more than a passing breeze in the port. "If that were so, he would not have _cleansed_ his daughter's homeworld."

Tony can feel the blood drain from his face as he grows cold. His breath stops as he looks at her and realizes she may be far older than she looks. She may have more experience than he could ever guess. He may be too far over his head for all this.

"He's only after one thing," she says, looking around at the bedlam in the port. "And it's all he's ever been after."

Despite his inability to move, he notices a slip in her speech pattern. It's slight, and she still retains an accent similar to Thor, but it does make him wonder what she's keeping from him. Even now as she's willingly offering Thanos's secrets, he questions her allegiance.

Regardless of whom she serves, however, the severity in her voice causes what's left of the world to crumble beneath him.

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

"You sure they're okay with us poking around in here? They don't exactly seem like the friendly type."

" _I'm_ not poking around." Steve gives a soft chuckle as he looks down at the table.

A lifeless tangle of vibranium, circuits, and wires which took human form now lie on the table near the shattered window. Gone are the greens, reds, and golds—reminders of virtue, integrity, and honor. Shades of varying greys now color his fallen comrade.

Another victim of the gauntlet he failed to stop.

The weight settles on his shoulders again, dragging him to the bottom of the abyss where he belongs. How many lives did he trade for Vision only to lose so much more in the end? The android had the foresight to destroy that which kept him living.

Steve, on the other hand, signed the death certificates.

His batter walls won't last forever against the tidal wave raging against it. Each surge creates another crack on its way to shattering his defenses. It won't be long before he crumbles and finds himself washed out into the depths.

Had he simply listened to Vision they could have survived. The android would be gone, but they would have won. The universe would still be whole.

Instead, everything was lost because of his stubbornness.

"He told me to destroy the stone instead of him," Steve admits, arms folding across his chest. "I told him we don't trade lives."

"Not following that particular request cost a lotta lives and caused a whole bunch of pain and suffering," the raccoon says climbing up on the table next to Vision's lifeless body.

Steve's head bows. Rocket isn't wrong. Had he followed an order then maybe—

"But I bet he knew who his friends were in the end, because of it."

He looks at the raccoon whose fur's trembling slightly.

"Bet he knew people cared about him. People loved him. He didn't die alone."

Steve swallows roughly. "Groot wasn't alone, either."

For the first time, the raccoon gives a slight whimper. "They didn' deserve this."

And for a moment Steve realizes that Rocket isn't just talking about Groot, but about others he knew. That revelation is unsettling because how many in the _universe_ lost loved ones to the gauntlet?

"None of 'em," Rocket continues. "Least of all him. Sure, he was a pain in the ass, but all saplings are. He'd have grown out of it."

Placing a hand on Rocket's head, a lump fills Steve's throat. What does he say? How does he respond? Does he have the right?

Looking towards the window, he answers the only way he can. "I'm sorry. I never—"

"No!" the raccoon snarls, grabbing his attention. "You don't get to blame yourself for what that purple bastard did! And when Quill gets here, we're going after him. Gamora's his daughter. She'll know where he sleeps, and I'll blow his ass to space dust."

Looking at the creature, Steve sees sorrow and loss in his dark eyes instead of boiling rage. It's no surprise since the raccoon watched someone he loved turned to dust. How Rocket has yet to fall apart shows how strong the animal truly is, and Steve's left wishing his walls were that durable.

There's a twitch of the raccoon's ears as his gaze snaps towards the spiral ramp. The fur at his collar stiffens and his eyes narrow.

Steve's gaze follows Rocket's.

Descending towards them is a woman with long flowing hair. Her outfit seems to be of some sort of black leather, or perhaps it's painted on—he isn't sure. The hairs on his neck rise as her gaze sweeps the room.

Rocket's head tilts. "Who the f—"

" _Ana simtum alaku_ ," she says softly and her eyes glow like red stars in the sky.

Steve wonders what language the woman uses. He doesn't have time to figure it out since Rocket crashes into him. There's an explosion somewhere in the distance as he hits the ground. With the breath knocked out of him, he watches as Rocket rolls to his feet and pulls the gun from his back.

"Hey!" the raccoon snarls. "It's been a long day, and I _don't_ have a problem hurting broads."

Steve's barely managed to get his feet under him when a blast from the left throws the woman to the ground unconscious.

His attention, just like Rocket's, snaps to see Shuri emerging from the shadows. There's a slight limp in her step and she's covered in bandages, but the blasters on her wrists show she's recovering well after her hospital stay.

Though Steve questions when she was released. Or even if.

"Why are people in my lab?"

Rocket's eyes widen, and his head bobs at her hand blaster. "How do I get one of those?"

Her brow rises. "Captain Rogers, why is the woodland creature speaking?"

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

 _Tick._

 _Tick._

 _Tick._

Eyes shifting around the darkened room, he knows the ticking is meant to set him on edge. It's meant to frazzle every nerve in his body. It's meant to keep him from thinking straight and not unraveling any threads in this nightmare.

Too bad he considers it an old friend.

There's something comforting about it. Something soothing about a place he's dreamed of—been in—time and time again. It lulls a sense of peace in him despite where he currently is.

He knows the room. Knows where he's been sentenced. Knows how dangerous it can be if he isn't careful. From the black curtains to the dim lights the dark magic has a stronghold over this room. Things he's skirted the edge of, been told not to touch because power can be found in many places.

He knows better.

Knows there's stronger magic than the voodoo here.

In fact, that magic has brought him to this specific point for some reason. Time has determined this is where he'll wait because fate has plans. Plans that he's adamant about carrying out.

Looking around, he sees merely shadows of what once was and what has been but will never be again. The fact no one else has materialized is good. It means others are still alive. Still able to reverse what Thanos has done.

The one scenario is still possible.

Of course, it could mean others are kept in another place. They could be trapped, trying to figure out what happened, terrified of this new existence.

But he saw how the endgame spins.

Saw how it flips, twists and turns like a death-defying rollercoaster or a runaway train. In doing so, he knows what he needs to find hiding in this place.

 _This isn't magic._

"It's a form of it," he says to nothing. He knows no one's really there. Just the shades of people he'd once seen in this very place. Once conversed with. Once enjoyed.

 _It's dark. Magic isn't meant for this._

"The dark arts." He winces. He shouldn't be talking to nothing, but perhaps it's part of the calming lull he feels.

Or the dark spell this nightmare wants to wrap him in.

 _No. What you view as science or magic, is simply power in another form. This, however…this is something else entirely._

He pauses before the table, gaze on the crystal ball, and fights off a smirk. "We've come all this way to turn down the palm reading?"

 _I've met Seers who have better assumptions._

Taking a deep breath, he pushes the conversations from his mind. Looking to the corners of the room, he gives a low whistle.

Only to be met by silence.

"I know you're here," he says quietly to the nothing. "I saw it."

Taking another breath, he gives a series of short whistles.

When still nothing materializes, he shakes his head and grumbles. "Come _on._ "

Chills run up his spine as the hair on the nape of his neck rises. The cloak tugs gently away from the lengthening shadows in a corner of the room. Turning, glowing white eyes observe his every move as a massive shadow shifts slightly.

Taking a step forward, he holds out a hand. "You remember, don't you?"

The shadow steps forth, wisps of smoke surrounding it. Ears flat against its head, the enormous obsidian wolf bristles and bares its teeth as it materializes. Pausing steps from him, it returns his gaze.

Everything inside tells him to run, even the cloak is tugging at him. He knows how foolish it is, but also how important it is that he keeps his hand held out. "Easy boy. You have to remember. I know it's been a while."

Straightening up, the wolf sits. The glow of its eyes fades revealing grey pupils, observant as ever and exceedingly human-like. While its lips are covered, its gaze remains narrow.

"I need you to find them," he explains. "You're currently the only one capable of traversing the planes."

It draws a deep breath as its ears rise.

Taking a step forward, his hand slides up the soft, silky fur and behind an ear. "They need you."

It snorts, breath hot on his face.

"I can't help you with that," he replies. "I'm just as trapped."

Giving a low growl, the wolf gives a tilted nod. Rising, it turns and disappears into the shadows again.

Leaning against the table, he watches as the crystal ball rolls off and shatters into wisps of smoke. He can't help the smirk that twitches onto his lips. "You did that on purpose."

 _I would never._

And the sound of laughter long gone fills his ears.

* * *

— _Incoming Transmission_ —

 _Thank you for your patience while life is hectic._

 _If I haven't thanked you for your kind support or can't, please know from the bottom of my heart I am super grateful._

 _To make your life easier, hit the follow button._

 _If you catch something or you're enjoying, let me know._ _I'm only human._

— _End Transmission_ —


	8. Appearances are Deceiving

_You're a good man, with a good heart. And it's hard for a good man to be king._

That must be why he is stuck in the world of red dust and sky where it is home to only him. It allows his footsteps to mar its smooth plane as red particles coat his black suit. It will not be long before he is as red as the planet Bast and Sekhmet have condemned him to.

If only he had been a better king. One who would have led his country to victory rather than ruin. One who could have united the world in peace. One who could have led them into a glorious age.

Instead, he now treks this desolate planet alone without so much as a drop of water. Oddly enough, he does not find himself thirsty. Nor does he find himself hungry or tired. On the contrary, he seems to want for nothing. A feeling both comforting and frightening.

With a sigh, he considers his condemnation. Though he may have been a good man, Bast and Sekhmet saw him unfit for the Ancestral Plane which means he will never see Baba, again.

Not that he has any right to.

No, he chose to be a good man instead of a king.

He feels the slight burn in his eyes as if they are too dry. His throat tightens as if he is being suffocated by Sargent Barnes. Both of which are oddities because he feels nothing here.

Through the shifting dust he moves, and his thoughts turn to Shuri. He prays, hoping Bast will be kind enough to listen. He pleads to the god for Shuri's survival. Hopes against every whim that she has not faced a similar fate. If she has not, his sister will make a fine queen. She will lead Wakanda into a glorious future.

A future he could not obtain for them.

Which is why Bast sent him here.

Punishment for all his failures.

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

It doesn't take a genius to know the broad's lying. He knows it. Feels it. Senses it.

And he knows who she's impersonating.

Of course, the bald bodies aren't quite as intelligent. Not that they ever are. He's been through plenty of Quill-flarken-plans to prove it. But that's beside the point since currently, this group is taking that bitch at her word.

Sitting on a shelf, high above the others, Rocket watches the blonde settled in that big comfy chair they've provided. She's been given food, water, and now spews lies about her place in the _multiverse._

Rocket's lip twitches every few minutes as the lies grow and spin into some longwinded nonsense. While he's still trying to figure out what she's planning, Rocket doesn't know if he's more disgusted with her or the bald bodies lapping this shit up as if it isn't piss water from Knowhere.

"Everything dies," she explains to those slop-for-brains believing this crap. "It is the way of life. It is how things are. The Great Wheel demands its offering."

The fur on the nape of his neck presses against the fabric of his shirt. If they weren't being _diplomatic_ , he'd have strung her up by her toes and beaten the living shit out of her for the truth. This _peaceful talk_ is nothing but a load of flarken lies, and he despises the bald bodies for buying into it.

"The Great Destroyer always gets his due," she informs.

It takes everything in him to keep his lips pressed together, to stay still as a statue. In his travels, he's seen many profess to be _god_ - _like_ , but she takes the cake. This bitch is more than he can bear and yet they're hook on her words because they need to have a reason for the purple bastard's actions.

Why _wouldn't_ the bald bodies need an answer to a morbid question, though? Rocket knows most beings are driven to understand, to have explanations even when there are none that will suffice.

In this situation, however, he does have some sense of knowledge—at least with the broad in question.

If they had seen what he has, if they've been where he's been, they'd know how full of shit she is. They'd know that as long as she draws breath, she is filling their heads with false truths. They'd know a bit more about the answers that elude them so.

But not everyone is an experiment. Not everyone has been tortured and tormented. Not everyone has been torn apart and put back together.

Licking his lips, his gaze drops to his paws. Sure, he tells beings he doesn't know who the grape is. He acts confused about the purple bastard, but there was a reason he joined the pirate-angel instead of going after Thanos.

Pausing, he decides perhaps he has a few things in common with the bitch.

Regardless, that purple grape's ideals put him through more hell than that time he had a bounty in Alpha Centauri and was nearly killed by the ugly spiked creature.

So, he'll just bide his time until he can talk to the captain. Tell him that he knows the broad is a fraud and hope the bald body listens. He knows he has no proof. He knows Earth holds some _innocent until proven guilty_ nonsense.

But he also knows the real person instead of this mockery.

He just hopes the Earther will listen to that.

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

Like the little girl in _Jurassic Park_ , his mind keeps saying, _she left me_.

 _She left me._

 _She… left me._

Without an answer, the Weeping Angel sent him on his way. Sent him to search the port for passage to Earth. Sent him in a direction where he's supposed to find tickets or…something.

Instead, he's wandering aimlessly, like a child lost in a crowd, in a port where people are packed together like sardines.

Chipping blood is caked on most of the refugees as if dust isn't the only tragedy they've currently seen. Young search for parents Tony's not sure they'll ever find. Old gaze into the distance as they begin to realize their family is no more. Each sob tugs on the strings of his heart, at his very soul, leaving his jaw slacked.

Tony's seen tragedy. Stared death in the face. But this…

This is some entirely new beast.

And there's nothing he can do.

Weaving through the crowd, millions of frantic tics beat within his heart. It's odd. As if there's some silent countdown, but he's unsure of the end.

Finding a spot on the wall, he presses himself into it. Red caked hands run over his face as he takes sharp, quick breaths and shuts his eyes.

If he can push hard enough, maybe he'll become the wall. Then he won't need to breathe. He won't need an erratic heartbeat. Won't need to bother the inhabitants of this universe anymore.

 _He's only after one thing…_

The room burns his soft flesh. Wraps around his throat like that big, meaty, purple hand. A cacophony of shouts drowns out all sanity, leaving chaos in its wake. His fingers caress the wall, searing the skin that touches it.

 _And it's all he's ever been after._

One harsh shove finds him tumbling to the ground where his head meets the corner of a bench.

With a soft breath, his eyes open to the silence enveloping him. Millions are still pressed against him, but he's able to rise. As his gaze travels the crowd, his blood turns to ice.

The refugees surrounding are now ghostly blue and drifting aimlessly through the hallway. Looking down, he sees his hands are still peach creating a vivid contrast. Stepping on the bench, he scans the horde to see one or two which retain their normal color. He also realizes that millions, however, are nothing more than blue ghosts.

It's then the station shakes from the very foundation. He covers his ears as screams shatter the silence. Children sob. Chaos snowballs into hysteria.

The explosion wipes his vision.

When he wakes, he's curled in a tight ball. Walls touch him on three sides, harsh and unforgiving. Blinking, he sees the Weeping Angel above him, battered and beaten.

She's dressed in nothing more but a simple fabric-wrap, ash in color, around her chest and a matching pair of shorts. Blood drips from gashes running along her goosebump riddled body. Wide, frightened eyes gaze at something in the distance. Her trembling fingers absent-mindedly run through his hair. Her breaths are short, labored, rapid. Little puffs of frost are visible with each exhale.

Shifting, he bites his bottom lip as he sits up and looks around.

The cell they're captive in is tiny. There's barely room for him, let alone her. However, the close proximity alerts him to the fact she's damn near frozen like a popsicle.

Not that the shorts he's donning keeps frost from forming in his bones. Ash in color and too thin for his liking, they're also covered in blood, though he's not sure if it's his.

Tony's gaze follows hers, past the bars, to the grey creatures on the other side.

 _A soft buzz is the only noise heard as the portal envelops him and the nuke. It doesn't take much longer for his HUD to tremble and fade. His armor shorts out._

 _The missile rushes past him, heading toward the large craft. Soft_ clicks _are heard as chunks of armor fall away. He's left helpless as the nuke connects with the craft, blowing it to smithereens._

A tremor runs through his bones. He thought the Chitauri were long gone. Thought they'd been wiped out during the invasion of New York. The ones before him, however, are very real as they fluctuate between grey and wisps of smoke.

Swallowing roughly, he whispers, "What's going on?"

Teeth chattering, her attention shifts to him. Wiping her nose, blood smears across her upper lip. Raising a hand, it freezes mid-movement as it shakes violently.

 _Shock,_ he thinks. Putting an arm around her, he pulls her close. A hand runs up and down her shoulder, trying to take the chill off her icy skin. Breath catches in his throat as his fingers graze gashes still leaking sticky blood.

Shifting, he looks at her back. His eyes widen when he finds metal divots embedded in her skin, forming some sort of pattern. From what he can tell, there's a triangle. What he doesn't understand are the two divots on one side while there's one on the other for a total of seven.

 _I've seen that before…_

And while he's mildly curious about what it's forming, he's also disgusted that someone would do such a thing. True, he's seen some wild body alterations, but she doesn't strike him as the type to do such a thing. Which leads him to believe she was forced.

"It's okay," he manages to whisper because, despite his best intentions, his voice seems to fail him. Between the explosion, the cold, and the existence of the Chitauri, Tony's not quite sure how he hasn't fallen apart.

Instead of a reply, he feels her shake her head—although that might just be her shuddering from the cold.

Taking a deep breath, he works to keep himself calm and steady. If he can relax perhaps she will as well. What doesn't help are the other beings he sees trapped in cages. Terror is written on their faces, fear in their wide eyes. Some are already lifeless heaps on the floor, blood pooling past the bars.

"Chitauri labor camp," she whispers, tears mixing with dried blood as they form a red river down her gaunt cheeks. "Beings will dead within a year the way they work them. Only the strongest survive."

"Are you saying I'll be dead?"

She looks at him. "Humans never survive."

* * *

— _Incoming Transmission_ —

 _Your support means the world to me while I'm working and going to school._

 _I cannot thank you enough for your kindness._

 _To make your life easier, hit the follow button._

 _Critique is welcome. Comments are appreciated._

— _End Transmission_ —


	9. As It Seems

There's no Karen here. No Aunt May. Not even Mister Stark for a lecture.

And what he wouldn't give to be lectured right now.

To be told what he did wrong, how he could have done better, why he wasn't good enough.

Actually…he knows the answers to those questions.

If he could have just gotten the glove off. Been stronger, faster, wiser. He could have had the glove off.

Should have gotten the glove off.

But he didn't.

Curling up on the one rock he sees, he knows there's no chance he'll be saved. There's no way he'll escape. Whatever happened to him—that painful, crumbling feeling as if he was burning into ash—cemented his place in this red, red world.

A place he deserves.

He's going to be alone for the rest of his day—

Sniffing draws his attention. A tiny black nose enters his vision attached to a white body. A little puppy in this empty, red waste. His fingers stretch out, scratch behind the ears bringing a soft whine as the pup leans into his hand.

"You're that Spider Kid."

Peter's on his feet in an instant, low to the ground, ready for attack. When he sees it's the metal arm dude, he shifts to sit on the rock. Curiosity piques as the white puppy trots over to the man and he picks it up.

Peter knows well enough that puppies aren't normally friendly with evil dudes. Looking at the man, his head tilts. "It's actually Spiderman."

There's a quirk of his brow as a slight smirk lines his lips. In no way is it intimidating, nor does he seem to be a threat. Perhaps that's why his spider senses didn't tingle. The man can't be all bad especially with the way the puppy switches positions and tucks its head under his chin. He finds it odd that one paw hugs over the shoulder as if it's nothing more than a human baby that needs protection.

"Just you, Kid?" the man asks.

Peter nods. "Well, now you and the puppy."

He gives a nod, shifts so the puppy is in one arm before holding out his hand. "Bucky."

Peter looks at the hand before looking up at him and shaking his hand. "Peter."

"Steve mentioned you're from the Bronx."

He nods. "You from Brooklyn like him?"

"Yeah." Bucky gives a soft chuckle. Shaking his head, he starts walking again. "Come on, Spiderman. There has to be more than us."

A new feeling washes the sorrow from his body flooding his veins with hope. Dancing along next to the metal arm man, he knows the guy has to be right. They can't be alone. "Does it have a name?"

Bucky's brow rises.

"The puppy?"

In one flowing gesture, he shifts the puppy so Peter can see. "I've been calling her Lani."

"Lani?"

He gives a shrug. "Just came to me. I suppose. Might be this place. It's odd here."

Peter nods in agreement. Looking around, the world is foreign, but he doesn't wonder if they're on Mars since the ground is red. He knows there isn't air on Mars. What's bothersome is he can't see past the red clouds in the hazy sky to determine where they might be.

Placing his hands behind his back, the wheels of Peter's mind turn as he takes a breath. "I think this place means we lost."

"Depends on your definition of losing," Bucky replies with a glance towards him. "If you're looking at the battle, yeah, we lost that."

"Then, what did we win?"

He pauses. "Haven't quite figured that out. I didn't imagine the afterlife being…this. Or at least, you don't deserve Hell kid."

"Nor the puppy," Peter says.

"Exactly.

"If this _is_ the afterlife…" Peter questions, brow wrinkling as a new thought dawns. "Then why isn't your arm restored?"

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

 _-Six Months Later-_

Walking through the trees, he's light on his feet as he looks for any sign of the raccoon. Despite the dangers of the surface world, Rocket would rather risk his life in the open than be around the Black Swan. In spite of his efforts, Steve cannot fathom why the raccoon has such an aversion to her. After this long, she hasn't tried anything on them. Hasn't come across as threatening. For as concerned as Rocket is, there is nothing to back up the raccoon's fears.

Which leaves Steve between a rock and a hard place. He wants to appease Rocket because he does trust the raccoon. However, the Black Swan has been nothing but helpful during this time of disaster, distress, and loss. She's the reason so many fled underground before the attacks…

And she's the reason they're safe and sound underground, hidden from the horrors in the atmosphere.

Why Rocket can't see that is beyond Steve. And no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to get the raccoon to open up to him.

Keeping his gaze raised to the tree branches, Steve finally finds the woodland creature nestled between the trunk and a limb cleaning his gun. "You know the woods aren't safe."

"Safer than with that broad," the raccoon growls.

Steve sighs. "She's been helpful."

He scoffs. "Yeah, and Ego wasn't in the universe for eons tryin' ta find the right offspring."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you're an idiot like the rest of you flesh-bags."

With another sigh, Steve climbs the tree and settles on a thick branch below the raccoon. "If she can help us fix this—"

"She can't," he growls, ears flattening against his head. "That no good broad ain't gonna help you do anything. You think 'cause she uses some fancy words like _Quantum Realm_ she's on your side? Don't be so flarken stupid."

"Bruce agrees with her—"

"Course he does." Rocket exhales. Strapping his gun to his back, he hops down from the tree. "She's telling you exactly what you wanna hear. That's what telepaths _do_."

Following suit, Steve drops down and trails. "Telepath?"

"We've had this conversation one hundred and thirty-seven times," the raccoon growls as he makes his way through the woods.

Trotting ahead, Steve kneels in front of Rocket. "What?"

The raccoon rolls his eyes. "I don't know why I keep botherin'. She just wipes your memory anyway. Keeps you spinning in circles and no closer to helpin' out those we've lost. Flarken waste of time."

Steve's head tilts. "You're saying, we've discussed this before?"

"One hundred and thirty-seven times." Rocket knocks his knuckles against Steve's skull. "The broad keeps wipin' your memory. Soon as she senses you coming. _Blam_!"

And for what feels like the first time, Steve finds himself unable to take even the tiniest of breaths.

*TiC* TiC* TiC*

 _"It's nobody's fault."_

 _I'm so sorry…_

 _"…I trashed all my suits…We had to mop up HYDRA, then Ultron…I don't wanna stop…"_

The images waver around him like tiny lights flickering, guiding him as they form and give way like the ever-changing tides.

 _"When you can do the things that I can, but you don't…and then the bad things happen…they happen because of you."_

Shifting and turning and spinning in a place beyond thought and time.

 _"If you could make God bleed, people would cease to believe in Him…"_

So far and so vast, yet never possibly existing at all. A blur of what once was and what never will be. For what is truly real?

 _Wake up, Tony. You're not dead just yet._

He blinks into the blinding light. Shudders violently since it feels as if he's just broken free of a glacier. Tenses as the object in his mouth forces air into his lungs.

A shimmer shifts and he squints. In the light, there's something hazy watching him. Something he can't quite focus on, but it's almost as if he knows what it is.

Knows he's seen it before.

Knows it's—

Alarms screech to his right. Panic floods his veins as a terrible chill breathes goosebumps on his bare skin. Fear knocks on his door and he's lucky enough to have the door barred.

Looking to his right, he watches a grey, reptilian Chitauri growl to others that work on a pale body. Holographic screens flash warnings of what he can only assume is impending death.

There's a twinge in his chest. Sorrow heavy and thick. But he also feels overwhelming fear knocking, and suddenly isn't sure if it's a bad thing. After all, his senses are heightened as he watches the Chitauri desperately try to save the being.

Which makes him momentarily question everything he knows about the species.

His attention doesn't hold for long as movement by the door catches his attention. In the stark white medic bay, the black-cloaked figure is nothing but ominous as dread fills Tony's soul. Sorrow continuous to build, threatening to flow out from his chest like lava from Mauna Loa.

 _Tony, you must do something_.

The voice in his head cracks what's left of his sanity as a blur of thoughts mingle in his tired mind. The voice is as familiar as the cloaked figure he knows is a reaper.

Pausing beside the table next to him, the reaper tilts its head methodically, reminding Tony of those fabric things from the wizard movies.

Or perhaps a Nazgul.

Tony's gaze moves to the victim. Still pale and now slightly blue. It appears to be female though he can't see too much past the massive Chitauri bodies. Can't see much past the tangle of brown hair. Can't see much until her head lolls slightly towards—

 _No!_ Tony thinks. _NO!_

The reaper pauses, hooded gaze on him as if it can hear his thoughts. Fear beats on the door, Tony refuses to open.

 _Leave her alone!_ Tony thinks as the reaper seems to continue to stare. His heart picks up pace because he can't lose the one person in the universe who's— _mostly_ —stayed with him. He can't bear to lose the one ally he seems to have made. He can't bear to…

To be alone in this massive universe.

And just like that the reaper turns and leaves.

As it does, the alarms silence. Two breaths later, Tony sees a soft pink color light Weeping Angel's cheeks. It doesn't take long for her tired eyes to open and glance to him. Panic in them simmers before a tear slides down her cheek.

* * *

— _Incoming Transmission_ —

 _Happy Slytherin day to my fellow Hogwarts classmates._

 _Perhaps after OWLs, life will calm down a bit._

 _Happy mid-semester._

— _End Transmission_ —


End file.
